Remembering
by clair beaubien
Summary: He needs to remember. Set post-TWS. Now complete.
1. Chapter 1

He had nowhere to go.

For the first time in a hundred years he had nowhere to go and no idea what to do next.

Maybe it wasn't one hundred years; maybe it was fifty or seventy. He had elements of a battery of memories detached and kinetic inside his head but any attempt to isolate and identify them had always been burned out of him.

But only the attempts had been burned; not the elements. They still floated free inside his head. That's how they never had to teach him to kill each time.

So now he needed somewhere to go. Somewhere no extraction team would find him. Somewhere he could find clothes that would let him blend in, disappear, so nothing could be burned out of him again.

So _no one_ could be burned out of him again, he thought as he turned in the safety of distance and camouflage and watched the overly large response team converge on the motionless body farther down the bank of the river.

_You're my friend…you've known me your whole life…_

He didn't know what that meant. His whole life. Whenever he opened his eyes, the world had moved on without him and a new grouping of people confronted him. He wasn't a friend. He was a weapon, an assassin, an attack dog. A rabid dog. He didn't remember anyone ever calling him a friend.

No one except the man who - once his own mission was over - had offered no defense of himself, had been willing to die rather than abandon him.

Something churned up from his guts into the back of his throat thinking that, hearing that word in his head, _abandoned._

He didn't want to be abandoned anymore.

He stayed in the camouflage of the trees until nightfall, watching from where he knew he wouldn't be detected as the other man was prepped and packaged and airlifted to safety and medical care. To family and friends and people happy to see him.

He stayed in the trees into the darkness until he found the strength to reach into his memory and pluck a floating memory back into existence.

He remembered somewhere he could go.

Shadows muted his movements from the river, through the city, to the apartment building of the man he'd pulled from the river. The man who was in the hospital now. He followed the shadows up to the ledge that led him to the window that let him into the apartment.

tbc


	2. Chapter 2

He stood in the apartment several minutes, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. He knew the apartment was monitored and, in the very likely event there were still eyes and ears surveilling this location, he wouldn't alert them to his presence by turning on a lamp or even a flashlight.

A sense of apprehension filled him, standing in the darkness. He'd been in apartments before, but this was different. He'd been in apartments, homes, offices, garages, planes, ships, tunnels, sewers, caves - but those had always been when his mission was to kill someone.

Now his mission seemed to be to resurrect someone.

Himself.

When the opaque blackness had dissipated to dim gray, he took a read on his surroundings. He was in the front room. The hallway just ahead would lead to the bedroom, bathroom and kitchen. He'd find food and clothes there that would help him remain undetected out in the world.

He moved forward slowly, stepping on the outsides of his feet and rolling them soundlessly down to the floor. The sharp pain in his right arm was dulling to an unremarkable ache and would soon be gone entirely but he kept it flexed and still, close to his side but not touching. Any sound of the fabric rustling or even brushing against itself could be picked up on the bugging devices in these rooms.

The hallway led to the kitchen first but he kept going to the bedroom. Clothes were more important than food, especially if his position was compromised and he had to leave the apartment sooner than he was anticipating.

He stood still again for a minute in the doorway of the bedroom, getting his bearings. Neatly made bed. Functional bureau with a mirror attached to the back but nothing across the top of it, no photographs or trinkets. A small table next to the bed that held a lamp and a book. A door between the bed and bureau that was probably the closet. A straight back chair next to the bureau that had some clothes laid over it. A wastebasket.

Nothing else.

No big screen TV. No computer. No dirty dishes or dirty ash trays. No paraphernalia of opulence or decadence or violence.

Just a bed, a bureau, a lamp and a chair.

_You're my friend, you've known me your whole life…_

Had he been in this room before? He had no memory - and no memory of a memory - of it in his head. He'd gone into bedrooms before to kill people, but they'd been all straight lines and wide spaces. This room was curved lines and compact space and felt - living. As though someone actually lived here instead of just spending time here. He had no memory of being in this room before but still there was a hint, a trace, an echo of familiarity. When he took a quiet step farther into the room he realized what it was - the smell. There was some familiar smell in this room.

It wasn't a recently familiar smell. The only smells he remembered being familiar with were alcohol and antiseptics, the bitter smells of cryofreeze and the blunt smells of death. The mask he always wore on missions had been specially made to filter out smells because smells were triggers to memories and memories weren't allowed. Anything that started in a memory ended in pain. Memories were bad.

And yet - _I'm not going to fight you, you're my friend_ \- the man on the helicarrier had wanted him to remember. He'd wanted him to live outside of mask and mission and confinement, where memories were allowed. Where they were encouraged. Where they were _good._

He took another step into the room and deliberately smelled that smell.

_~ Old Spice ~ _ the words or thought or memory rushed so forcefully into his memory he thought he could actually feel it erupt out of his brain. He didn't know what the words meant other than that he remembered something - he remembered that smell.

Unexpectedly, moisture filled his eyes. He didn't know why - the smell wasn't noxious, there was no evidence of other airborne contaminant or irritants - but his eyes watered and an odd pain flared behind his rib cage. Nothing else happened, his pulse didn't speed up or slow down, his air passages didn't burn or swell, so he thought it had to be some kind of aberration, but still one that he didn't want to ignore.

He pushed aside that smell and what the memory of it might mean and continued his mission of finding some clothes so he could retreat to the outside world and the relative safety of silence and concealment.

The clothes on the chair were easiest to take since it didn't involve opening a drawer or closet. He picked them up with is robotic arm - there was a jacket, a pair of pants, and a hat with a bill. They all seemed like they'd fit. That familiar smell was stronger here though, and his eyes watered more, so he made the decision to exit the apartment immediately. He rolled the clothes together and walked soundlessly out of the bedroom, through the kitchen and back to window in the front room that led him back outside.

Once safe in shadows and back alleys, he retraced his steps to the woods at the edge of the river. He stripped out of his uniform jacket and pants and pulled the ones he'd taken on over his black t-shirt. He took the few remaining weapons out of his uniform pockets and put them in the pockets of the new clothes and he felt a piece of paper folded up and tucked away in the pants pocket. He pulled it out and walked into a shaft of moonlight to read it.

_Captain America Exhibit, National Air and Space Museum, Open every day except December 25.  
10:00 am – 5:30 pm. Admission is free. _

And there, next to a picture of the man from the helicarrier, there was a picture of him.

_Who the hell is Bucky?_

Maybe he'd be able to find out.

tbc._  
_


	3. Chapter 3

As soon as the sun breached the horizon, the sound of helicopters and fire boats roused him from a half sleep and pushed him from his hiding place in the woods. More personnel and equipment were swarming the banks of the Potomac, resuming the search and recovery of equipment and bodies. They'd be working here for months. He'd have to find another, more secure safe-spot.

He'd thrown his uniform into the river the night before, hurling the jacket and trousers out into the carnage to become part of the floating islands of debris. Now, wearing his acquired clothes, he moved out of the woods, away from river and towards the city. His right arm was fully healed and usable and he pushed his robotic hand into the jacket pocket to conceal it.

As he walked, he kept his head down but paid attention to everything. Only a few persons were already moving through the darkness and deep shadows that still filled the streets. Vagrants, most of them, haunting the alleys and garbage containers. They were no threat. But soon more people would be present on the sidewalks, men and women going to work, children going to school, and more than likely, members of an extraction team looking for their lost asset.

They weren't going to find him.

As soon as more people thronged the sidewalks it would be easier for him to blend in and proceed unnoticed to the Smithsonian. Until then, he needed somewhere to conceal himself.

He scanned the area. Office buildings, government buildings, storefronts, surrounded him. One building, still in the early stages of construction, occupied the northwest corner of a three-way intersection. He walked to the back of the building and in a few minutes he'd pulled aside the pressboard barrier nailed over the unfinished doorway and was inside.

An array of smells inundated him in the dark, empty space and his brain rushed to isolate and identify them. _Raw wood. Raw cement. Chlorine. Asphalt. Industrial adhesive. Dampness. Mustiness. _He wasn't unfamiliar with the smells. None of them indicated anything threatening or dangerous and once the initial assault on his sense of smell had faded, he disregarded them and chose a corner to sit and wait.

_You're James Buchanan Barnes. You've known me your whole life. You're my friend._

As soon as those memories appeared, his brain inserted other memories. _Mission report. Confirmed death. Do your job._ He'd long ago had the habit of indulging in comforting memories burned and beaten out of him. _Mission report. Confirmed death. Do your job._

But now, he pushed back against that training and let those memories rise out of the swirl of memories.

_You're James Buchanan Barnes. You've known me your whole life. You're my friend._

He had a friend. He had a life. He had a name.

His eyes watered again, as they had at the apartment, and that strange sensation of dull pain flared behind his sternum.

He had a life. He had a name.

When the sound of people and cars indicated there was enough traffic to be an adequate diversion, he left his hiding place and merged into the stream of pedestrians, following the map in his head to the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum.

He knew how not to draw attention to himself, but it felt odd, walking with other people. He was used to people running screaming out of his way, stopping traffic just by standing in the street. He wasn't accustomed to being part of a crush of foot traffic, jostled and passed by unconcerned people, standing in a crowd on a street corner waiting for the traffic light to change.

But that was _before_.

_Now_ was different.

_Now_ he had a name. _Now _he had a life.

He just had to remember it.

To be continued.


	4. Chapter 4

_Steven G. Rogers._

He mouthed the name and let it roll around in his head, but nothing caught.

_Steven G. Rogers. You're my friend._

The Captain America exhibit was crowded, even for so early in the morning, but no one paid any attention to him as he circled the displays until he found the one he was looking for.

_Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. You're my friend._

He stared at the display, at the picture of _James Buchanan Barnes_ posted there. He listened to the audio descriptions. '…_Steven G. Rogers and Bucky Barnes, inseparable in the schoolyard and the battlefield…' _That couldn't be him. The accompanying description spoke of a friend and soldier and man who chose to put other people's welfare before his own.

That wasn't him. He wasn't Bucky Barnes. He couldn't be. He wasn't a friend; _Steven G. Rogers_ lying broken and bloody in some nearby hospital was proof enough of that. He was assigned missions; he never chose them. He was an assassin, not a soldier. He was a machine; he wasn't a man.

He turned away from the display, feeling a heaviness on his shoulders and in his chest that he was beginning to realize had no true physical cause. Even if he had ever been Bucky Barnes - he wasn't him now. He didn't remember that man. He couldn't remember how to be that man.

As he turned, he saw the video display. Film footage of Bucky Barnes. Every scene James Buchanan Barnes was in, Steven G. Rogers was in as well, as though they were connected, as though they were a team.

_Inseparable on schoolyard and battlefield…_

That made sense, he thought. That was why Rogers wanted him back now - he wanted the soldier, he wanted the team, he wanted -

And then the scene came up of them laughing. Bucky was laughing hard, harder than Steve, but they were both laughing at something. They were together. They were happy. They were laughing.

A bright memory crawled out of a dark abyss. Two boys walking down a street, half eaten apples in their hands, thin bundles of books slung over their shoulders.

_Hey, Steve - who's bigger? Mrs. Bigger or Mrs. Bigger's baby? It's Mrs. Bigger's baby. He's just a Little Bigger…_

And then they laughed.

_Best friends since childhood…_

He remembered laughing.

He watched that video replay five times, trying to let his mind open up to other memories ~ _friends, laughing, inseparable _~ but the gut reaction of expecting to be punished for remembering drove the elements of memories back into the abyss.

Finally, he turned away from the exhibit and towards the front door of the museum. He passed a water fountain and he stopped and stared at that a moment. It occurred to him that he hadn't eaten anything or had anything to drink in at least a day. He never thought about it before. He'd never had to think about it before - he ate and drank when it was given to him. When it wasn't, he didn't.

But now - no extraction team, no extraction, so no food or water that he didn't provide for himself.

After briefly considering the logistics of it, he approached the water fountain. He pressed the lever with his right hand and took a drink of water. A very long drink of water. It tasted good and wet and made him realize that he hadn't realized how thirsty he was.

He finished his long drink, wiped his mouth and gave one last look to the Captain America display ~ _you're my friend, you've known me your whole life _~ then walked back outside.

He felt like he was leaving a giant piece of himself behind, stretched like a rubber band pulled too far. He scanned the streets and sidewalks and rooftops, instinctively expecting an extraction team to be near and waiting for him. He shook his head to clear that thought. They weren't there. They weren't coming. He wouldn't go with them even if they were.

Wanting to stay in the vicinity of the museum and the exhibit, he searched the neighborhood for potential locations he could conceal himself. Alone in the quiet, maybe his memories would emerge. Maybe he could remember being a friend. Being a person. Being a man.

Close to the Metro station, he turned down an alley and found a small brick building, with a big sign across the facade, "KEEP OUT - TO BE DEMOLISHED." That would do.

A collapsible gate was pulled across the front of the building and padlocked in place. He reached out with his robotic hand and ripped the lock off and pushed the gate aside enough to slip behind it.

It was then that he saw two young boys, stopped dead in the alleyway, staring at him. Both their mouths hung open and the smaller of the two raised a hand to point at him, but the other one, the taller one, grabbed his shoulder and they both ran away.

When they were gone, he pushed his way past the gate and boarded door and into the dark, damp interior.

To be continued  
(next chapter, he and Steve find each other - with help)


	5. Chapter 5

"_Sergeant Barnes?"_

He was crouched in the corner of a second floor room. The sun came into this room and so he spent his time in here. He couldn't remember how long he'd been in this room. Inside this building. A few days. Maybe more. Going outside meant risking recapture and he wasn't going to risk that.

The building was marked for demolition but the faucet in the decaying bathroom still produced brackish water. It was musty but he drank it when he had to. He hadn't had any food, though, and the hunger in his stomach had turned into a floating pain that filled his skull.

"_Sergeant Barnes?"_

The worst thing was the memories. They skittered in his brain the way the rats skittered through this building, active and wary and always just out of reach. Even the solid memories - of being on the helicarrier, fighting that other man, trying to kill him, being saved by him, saving him – were treacherous; as soon as he started to remember them, the threat of the pain of memory wipes blocked them, eroded them. Tried to protect him from the pain that remembering them always caused. If he could grab even just one memory and make it stay, maybe he could –

"_**Bucky?"**_

The sound of that name, coming from outside his own mind, shocked him. He looked up. There was a man standing in front of him and he stood up quickly, too quickly maybe as the movement made him feel unsteady. But he stood up, ready to defend himself if he had to. The man wasn't familiar to him but that didn't mean he wasn't there to return him to his prison.

"Sergeant Barnes? I'm sorry…" He was a big man, strong, but he was dressed in a plain shirt and pants, not a uniform, and he held his hands up in front of himself, placatingly. "I didn't mean to startle you. My name is Bruce Banner. I'm affiliated with the organization known as SHIELD."

The man - Banner - stopped there and looked at him as though he expected some answer.

"Are you familiar with that organization, Sergeant Barnes?"

The name, SHIELD, echoed in his head. He licked his dry tongue over his dry lips.

He nodded.

"I'm your enemy." If Banner was there to try to take him prisoner, he was going to fail. Fatally.

"No. No, not at all." Banner said. "You're a soldier. An American soldier. You were captured by the enemy and held captive. You were brainwashed and you were tortured." His expression twisted as though saying the words caused him pain. "But you escaped and I'm here to bring you home."

_Home. _ The word pointed to a memory that wouldn't stand still, flashes of dark wood, bright rugs, blocks of ice, bread with butter, and people whose faces wouldn't come into focus. _Home._

"Sergeant Barnes?"

"There is no home. I don't remember home."

Banner smiled, not a hard smile approving of hard things, but a soft smile that might have been remorseful.

"You have a home. You still have a home. I'm here to make sure you get there."

Home. He couldn't imagine what it was or where it might be. Unless it was code for something else. For more of the same. Maybe 'home' was more bars, more locks, more pain, more nothing.

He didn't want nothing anymore.

"I'm not going back."

"No. You're going forward. You're going home. I have a car outside, if you'd like to come with me. You need food and rest. You need to clean up and get fresh clothes."

Food – tasteless objects on metal trays with attached spoons. Rest – an upright examination chair that could be used to instantly subdue and punish him. Clothes – a mobile weapons vault, hot, heavy, and bullet proof. Clean – even all the water in the Potomac wouldn't make him clean.

The Potomac.

"Is he all right?" He asked. He hadn't realized the question was waiting to be asked.

"'He'? You mean Steve? Captain Rogers? Yes, he's fine. He's out looking for you." Banner smiled that remorseful smile again. "If I don't call him pretty soon and let him know I found you, I think he might have my head."

"He's looking for me?"

"Did you think he wouldn't be?"

Yes, that was what he thought, that he was on his own, that he - Captain America ~ _Steve_ ~ wouldn't be looking for him, that he'd be glad to never see him again, that –

"_Bucky,"_ Banner's insistent voice broke into his thoughts again. "You're safe now and I want to take you to Steve. Please."

_Please_. He'd only heard that word from people who knew they were about to die and thought they could plead their lives. It never had an effect on him.

"_Please come with me. Please."_

Until now.

He nodded and Banner nodded in return and turned to the doorway.

"The car's just outside. Where we're going isn't too far away."

They made slow progress down the litter-filled stairwell, Banner in the lead. The board over the doorway was propped open, letting sunlight inside the room. The empty room. The guards were probably just outside the door, guns at the ready. He'd be herded into his containment vehicle and guarded like the unstable monster that they thought he was.

That he had always been.

But only an unmarked car sat in the alleyway past the door. And maybe not even an unmarked car, but just a car. No tinted windows, no bulletproofing, no reinforced paneling.

"Where are the guards?"

"We don't need them," Banner said. "Trust me – I can protect you."

"Protect - me?" He was watched, guarded, subdued, restrained, unleashed - never _protected_.

"Yes, protect _you._" Banner opened the front door of the car and stood back as though waiting for him to get in. In the front seat. But he never rode in the front seat of any vehicle. "Truly, Sergeant Barnes - _Bucky_ \- I'm here to protect you and to bring you to Steve."

After a look between the car and Banner, he got into the front seat of the car and sat stiffly, both hands hanging between his knees, eyes straight ahead. Banner shut the door and got into the driver's side. He took a phone out his shirt pocket and rapidly pushed a series of buttons. Then he put the phone away and started the car.

"All right, let's see who gets there first, us or Steve."

They pulled out into traffic and drove a few blocks. He kept his eyes straight ahead. No looking around. When he wasn't on a mission, he didn't look around, whether or not the vehicle windows were blacked out. He kept still now, looked straight ahead, and didn't ask Banner about the other man - _Steve_ \- because curiosity was always 'discouraged', brutally.

But a small thought floated across his brain that he only observed and didn't engage in any way and so it didn't skitter away - would he see _Steve_ soon?

Only a few blocks away from where he'd been in hiding, Banner turned the car into the entrance of an underground parking garage at the bottom of a tall office building. They stopped at a security station.

"Doctor Banner," the guard said, brisk and authoritative. "Mr. Stark requested you park here on the first level, in his personal parking space next to the bank of elevators. You'll enter the first elevator and proceed to the conference room on the 32nd floor." Then he waved them through.

Stark. Stark? That name was familiar. It was familiar in a way that didn't threaten being burned out of him, and in a way that did. What did that mean? Stark? Mr. Stark?

A memory turned through his head like a revolving door - laughing with Steve about something that someone named Stark had said…

_"No, Bucky, really - that's what he said it was. Just bread and cheese. Stop laughing at me, jerk. You woulda thought so too, the way Stark said it."_

"All right, here we go." Suddenly the car was parked and the door next to him was open and Banner - _Doctor _Banner - was waiting for him to get out.

The feeling of being an over-stretched rubber band was making him consider escaping. This could all be a trap. It probably was a very elaborate trap. He was SHIELD's enemy. They could do things to him that would make his time with Hydra feel like a day at Coney Island.

What was Coney Island?

"I'm not going back," he said.

Banner sighed and smiled as though it were painful to smile. He crouched down next to the car.

"Sergeant Barnes - _Bucky_ \- I know you don't trust me. I know I've done nothing to earn your trust. But - please believe me when I say that you're not only safe here, you're free. You don't have to do anything you don't want to do. No one will try to keep you here. No one will stop you if you choose to leave. But if you come upstairs with me, you'll be given food and clothes and - and _Steve_ is on his way here.

_Free_. Just hearing the word made his heart ache. Free was the sights and sounds and smells and memories he was always forbidden. Free was everything he was never allowed.

"I don't remember free."

Banner nodded as though he understood.

"You will. You'll get used to it again. C'mon upstairs with me now and let's get you some food. All right?"

He nodded. Maybe he was making a mistake but he was hungry and tired and dirty and it was just easier to follow orders, even if they were orders cloaked as friendly requests. He nodded and got out of the car and followed Banner to the elevator where another guard punched a code into the control panel. When the doors opened he followed Banner inside and stood still next to him as the beeping lights counted off the floors they passed.

"All right, here we go," Banner said as the elevator slowed and the doors opened again. "Follow me."

So he followed him out of the elevator and down a hallway. It was an empty hallway, with a carpeted floor and beige wallpaper and a line of closed doors. Banner stopped at the one open door and gestured that he should go inside.

"Have a seat, I'm going to find someone and order you some lunch. Just give me a minute."

He went in. It was a long room with a long table completely surrounded with chairs. The windows along the outside wall were close to the ceiling. Several credenzas lined the walls. No cryofreeze chamber. No mind-wipe machines. No restraints.

"How're you holding up?" Banner asked, coming back into the room. "Would you like some water? I think Stark keeps juice in here, too." He crouched in front of a credenza and opened a door that revealed a small refrigerator. "I ordered you coffee and milk with lunch, I hope that's all right. Or I can get you anything you want."

He listened to the words. He understood the words. But he couldn't understand how they were meant for him. No one ever asked how he was or what he wanted or if he wanted something else. He wasn't given choices. He was given what he was given and that was it.

Banner nodded again as though he understood something that hadn't been said. He closed the refrigerator and stood up. He gestured to the table.

"Please, sit down."

The table and chairs looked safe so he pulled a chair out and sat in it. He rested his right hand on the table and his robotic hand in his lap. Banner sat in the chair diagonal to him.

"How are you doing?"

How was he doing? He wasn't hurt. He wasn't dead. He didn't think he'd done anything wrong. He was just waiting.

He didn't answer. Banner nodded again at the something that hadn't been said.

"It's okay. They're on the way up with your food. We'll see how you feel after you eat."

Food. He was hungry but he'd long ago lost his appetite for the tough, bland, tasteless mess he was always served. But eating would ease the pain in his head at least.

He heard a bell and the sound of the elevator doors opening. Banner stood up, "that's probably your lunch now," and walked out into the hallway. He said "I'll take it in, thank you," to someone and came back carrying a tray filled with food that he set down on the table.

"Here you go. They said Steve just entered the building so I guess we can expect him to burst through a wall anytime now." Banner smiled but it didn't sound funny, and then Banner stopped smiling like he suddenly realized it. "He'll be here any second."

He'd barely finished saying that when there was the sound of a door being slammed open and a voice shouting, "Banner! Where are you? Where is he?"

And then _Steven G. Rogers_ was standing in the doorway to this room.

tbc

A/N: I'm sorry – I wanted more of Steve in this chapter but it's as long as two chapters already and I want Steve &amp; Bucky to have their own chapter. Thank you for your patience!


	6. Chapter 6

"Bucky?" _Steven G. Rogers' _voice was a whisper. "Bucky, is that you?"

Well, he might've once been Bucky Barnes, but he didn't know who or what he was now, so he didn't answer. He looked down to the tray that Banner had set in front of him. It wasn't his usual fare – flat beige food on gray metal trays - this tray was round and wooden and held three covered dishes, a stoneware cup, a small stoneware coffee pot, a pint carton of milk, and a cloth napkin wrapped around a real set of fork, knife, and spoon.

_Steve _stood in the doorway and stared as though what he was seeing was too painful or too incredible or too impossible to believe. Banner stood near him, arms crossed, leaning a shoulder against the door frame. Not like he was on guard or watching or wary, but just standing, watching Steve with that soft, remorseful smile.

"I ordered food," Banner said and Steve started as though the words or just the voice surprised him. "Have you had lunch?"

"What? No - I didn't - I just - Bucky?" Steve walked toward the table, slowly. He wasn't wearing the Captain America uniform; like Banner he was in a plain shirt and trousers, and a brown jacket.

Banner straightened up and gestured into the hallway.

"I'll be nearby if you need me," he said. "Tony said we can be here as long as we need." He left the room and closed the door, leaving the two of them alone. And suddenly, that 'stretched rubber band' feeling disappeared. He couldn't explain it and he didn't try to figure it out because he was afraid the feeling would be driven away by the instinctive fear of another memory wipe - but Steve felt _safe._

"Can I sit?" Steve asked, indicating the chair Banner had been sitting in.

He nodded and Steve sat down. That explained the food, he thought. It was for Steve. He reached with his right hand and pushed the tray over.

"What's this?" Steve asked. He seemed genuinely confused.

He thought over his words, wondering if there was a good or bad way to say it.

"You haven't eaten."

He expected Steve to accept the food and begin eating it. But Steve smiled broadly and his eyes shone as though they were filling with tears. He started to say something but he had to clear his throat twice before he could say it.

"Well, what do you say we split it?"

Steve lifted the white covers from the plates. There was a sandwich as big as three blocks of C4 on one plate, a bowl of red soup - _tomato soup,_ his memory supplied - on the second plate, and a bowl of chunks of fruit on the third.

"All right, here we go." Steve picked up half of the sandwich and pushed the tray back to him. But that couldn't be right. He was never given food like this. This looked like real food, and he was never given real food. "Bucky? It's OK. I've had this before; it's not my style but it actually tastes pretty good."

Even though his mouth watered just looking at the food, he had to force himself to pick up the other half of the sandwich, expecting any second to be 'discouraged' from wanting more than he was ever given. He picked it up in his right hand and took a cautious bite; he tasted bread and cheese and apple.

It tasted _good._

A memory floated by as he swallowed.

…_bread and cheese…_

"Is this fondue?" He asked and Steve choked and coughed and laughed, smiling that broad smile again.

"You remember fondue?"

He thought again how to answer.

"I remember remembering it."

That seemed to be an acceptable answer as Steve kept smiling although his eyes still shone with moisture.

"This is Tony's version of grilled cheese. The ingredients probably cost more than my rent, but I guess it tastes pretty good. What do you think?"

_Think? _What did he think?

He didn't think. He planned and acted and reacted and strategized and killed. He didn't think.

He took another bite of the sandwich and stared down at the table. Always when he was given food he ate alone, under the watch of at least three armed guards. The food was always bland - taste could trigger memories and memories were bad - and always eaten as a necessity, never as a pleasure. The same as the rest of his existence, eating, showering, repairs to his arm or to his body, they were only moments that had to be gotten through as efficiently as possible. They were only spaces between his missions.

_You're my mission. _

_You're. My. Mission._

That memory made him flinch. He swallowed what he had in his mouth then put the sandwich down and scrubbed his hand over his mouth. He'd fought Steve - shot him, stabbed him, beat him nearly unconscious, broken into his apartment, stolen his clothes - all of those memories flowed clear and unimpeded into his brain and made him sick.

"What is it?" Steve asked. "Are you okay?"

"You're my mission," he whispered and something familiar, vital, and dangerous flared into his skull and shoved aside the pain in favor of _the_ _mission_. He felt calm. He felt driven.

"Buck?"

He felt afraid.

"I don't want to hurt you," he said but his ingrained training clawed at his resolve. "You're my mission."

Steve swallowed hard but his face gave away nothing. He put his sandwich on the tray and cleared his throat and was probably trying to plot the quickest way out of this room.

"Yeah, your mission was to save me. After I fell into the river, I was drowning and your mission was to save me. You pulled me out. Do you remember that?"

He did remember that. Of course he remembered that. But that wasn't his mission.

"My mission was to kill you."

Steve nodded.

"That was before. That was the mission _they_ gave you. But the mission you chose after that was to save me. Right? You chose to save me. You chose a different mission."

That made no sense. _Target. Confirmed death. Mission report. _Those made sense. Those words slipped into the well-worn grooves of his memory and ran easily and rapidly around in his head. Those words felt natural and essential and completely _him._

"My mission…I need a mission. If I don't have one…"

Now Steve looked down, at his fingers laced together on top of the table.

"I know. I know that whenever you didn't have a mission, they – they – "

"They froze me."

Steve nodded and sighed and nodded again, then smiled.

"As far back as I remember, protecting me was your mission. You spent your whole life watching out for me. That's not new. That's been your mission your whole life. And now – I get to protect you, too. Now we're both on the same mission."

He nodded. Mission. He had a mission. He was safe; he had a mission.

"All right. So, what do you say we finish this lunch and get you a shower, and then get you home. We've got a lot of catching up to do."

"All right."

Steve picked his sandwich up and then he did, too and finished eating it.

_Safe. Home. Protect Steve._

Those words made sense, too.

To be continued.


	7. Chapter 7

When they were done eating the sandwich, Steve pushed the tray closer to him.

"Here, why don't you see what you think of the soup? Tomato was never really my thing."

_Thing. _Wasn't his _thing._ That sounded familiar. He remembered when his handlers – not recent ones – started using that phrase. Not to him. They didn't talk to him. Nobody ever talked to him. They talked _at_ him. They ordered him and warned him and berated him and criticized him and browbeat him, but they never talked to him.

"Bucky? Hey – you with me, Pal?"

He looked up and saw Steve looking at him, head tipped down, eyebrows pulled together, like he was worried, like he was questioning something. But Steve smiled when their eyes met and pushed the tray again.

"Why don't you try the soup?"

Soup. Food. More food.

He was always given enough food but not this kind of food. This kind of food was for his handlers and for _their_ handlers and for the men in suits who – literally – called his shots. Food like this was never for him.

"You won't get in trouble if I eat it?"

And again Steve started to say something but had to clear his throat before he could get it out.

"I'm sure. This is for you."

So he ate the soup, it was warm in his mouth and tasted even better than the sandwich had tasted. It tasted better than anything he ever remembered tasting. But when Steve asked, "How is it?" he couldn't remember how to answer the question.

"It's tomato soup," he said, because he wanted to answer Steve, even though he knew his answer didn't actually answer the question.

"Do you like it?"

_Like it?_ Nobody cared if he liked anything or didn't like anything. If ever he was asked the question, _do you like it?_, it was a taunt or a threat or a persuasion. If he liked the soup and did as he was told, he might get more next time. Or he might not. There was never a guarantee.

"Bucky? If you like it, we'll get more to bring home for you."

"Home?" That's what Dr. Banner had said. Take him home. "This isn't home?"

"No." Steve looked surprised. "This is just an office building. A big, ugly – anyway, no. Home is an apartment building on the other side of town. When you're ready, we'll head home."

_Ready_. He dropped the spoon and pushed the tray away and stood up. He was ready whenever he needed to be ready. He was ready when he was told to be ready. He was ready whether he wanted to be ready or not.

Steve stood up too but didn't start to walk out of the room; he gestured with both hands as though he was patting something down.

"Not yet. You haven't finished your lunch. It'll be soon, I promise. But – not yet. Sit. Finish eating."

But he didn't sit. It didn't make sense to sit and eat when it was time to move on.

"I'm ready."

"All right," Steve said, and smiled. "Then let's go home."

To be continued


	8. Chapter 8

_Going home_ didn't proceed the way he'd expected it to. He expected an armed escort, a tactical departure, an armored car.

_Protect Steve. The mission is protect Steve. _

But Steve led them into the hallway where only Dr. Banner waited, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, looking at the floor. He looked up when they came through the door.

"We're going home," Steve said. Dr. Banner looked up and smiled, nodding an agreement that seemed approving and relieved, not hard and calculated.

"I'll drive you."

He expected rules and procedures and commands. Protocols to be followed. Triggers to be avoided. Orders to be followed. But they took the elevator back to the parking garage in silence and at Dr. Banner's car, Steve opened the back door and motioned him inside.

"I protect you from the front," he said. Steve smiled that broad, wet-eyed smile he seemed to keep smiling.

"I've always been safest with you right beside me."

That made no logistical sense, and Dr. Banner's amused chuckle seemed to agree that Steve had made an amateur miscalculation, but Steve waved him into the backseat again, "_Please,"_ so he got in, Steve got in beside him, Dr. Banner got in the driver's seat and they proceeded to '_home'._

He kept his eyes on the traffic and rooftops, scanning for threats, but he was aware that Steve repeatedly turned to him and started to say something, then said nothing and turned away again. He wondered what Steve was having trouble saying, but he didn't ask. Asking wasn't allowed.

Soon they were turning into a parking lot at an apartment building ~

_~ two boys running up creaking stairs, an open door, warm smells, chocolate cake, cold milk, a smiling woman in a flowered apron ~_

"Bucky? We're here. We can get out now."

He flinched at the abrupt change between remembering and reality. They had stopped and Steve and Dr. Banner had already exited the car and were waiting for him. He had to exit the car; there was no excuse for such a lapse. If they knew he'd delayed because of a _memory_, he'd be beaten or wiped or frozen or all three. He had to exit the car.

Before he could move, Steve slid back in.

"Maybe we're moving too fast, hunh? Maybe we just sit here another minute?"

"I'm ready," he said. He saw Steve take a deep breath and the thought shot into his brain _~ he's gonna argue with me, why's he got to be such a stubborn punk? ~ _But he ran from the thought and the fear of its punishment. He had to protect Steve. "It's safer inside."

"We're safe, Buck."

"No." He knew; a long scope on the right rifle in the right hands and they weren't safe by a literal half mile. "No. You need to be inside." And even inside wasn't a perfect guarantee. He _knew_.

"All right," Steve agreed. "C'mon."

Once out of the car and standing on the pavement, every instinct demanded weaponry. Guns, knives, grenades; he felt naked without them. All he had to protect Steve was himself, and Steve deserved more than that.

But they didn't stand there, Steve led the way inside in front of him and Dr. Banner followed behind him into the building and up the stairs.

_~ voices of people calling greetings, open doors, children laughing and running, the fragrance of flowers and mothers cooking, the sure promise of supper and safety, cold milk and warm chocolate cake, Mom and Pop and - ~_

" - hear me?"

He stopped short, startled again at the shift from memory to reality. He'd lost focus again. He couldn't keep doing that. He looked to Steve, expecting anger, anticipating punishment, but Steve looked sad, not angry.

"We're here, Buck. Ready to go in?"

They were at an open door that led into that apartment. The one he'd broken into and stolen these clothes from. And before that, the one he'd scouted and monitored until he could practically see through the walls, waiting to kill - _someone. _He didn't know who. He never knew who.

_"Bucky?"_

"I'm ready," he answered Steve's worried question. Whatever he was needed to do, he was always ready to do it.

"All right, then. C'mon." Steve smiled and lifted his hand like he was about to put it on his shoulder, then his hand stopped like he wasn't sure. And then he did it, Steve put his hand on his shoulder, his left shoulder, above his metal arm. Even through the jacket, the touch was warm and grounding. "C'mon, Bucky. Let's go in."

To be continued


	9. Chapter 9

He knew this apartment. He _remembered _this apartment. He'd studied it in detail in the daylight. He'd infiltrated it in the dark. He'd shot his unseen target through its walls. He could walk it blindfolded if he had to. But this apartment didn't fuse with the images that the word _'home'_ created in his mind. He'd been expecting - his mind, his brain, some deepest part of him - had been expecting _more. _Welcoming voices, welcoming scents, welcoming offers of cake and milk and _affection_ from a woman whose face he couldn't see.

But the apartment was quiet and empty but for the three of them. So he stood next to Steve and waited to be told what was expected of him now.

"All right," Steve said. "Why don't we get you a shower and clean clothes, and then maybe a nice long nap."

"I can't protect you if I'm asleep."

"And you can't protect me if you're exhausted."

But that had never been a problem.

"Give me the injection," he said and Steve's expression changed from smiling to stone. Behind them, he felt Dr. Banner move closer.

"What injection?" Dr. Banner asked.

"The injection they gave me when I needed more strength. More force. When they gave me that, I didn't need sleep."

"Instead of letting you get sleep you needed, they gave you drugs," Steve said. His voice sounded like it came from deep inside of him.

"I didn't need sleep. I needed to be strong. I need to be strong now."

"What did they give you?" Steve sounded angry.

"I don't know."

"Amphetamines," Dr. Banner said to Steve. "Adrenalin, maybe. Maybe a combination, or a derivative."

Steve nodded. He took a deep breath and set his jaw. "No injections," he said through clenched teeth. "Not here. Here, when you're tired, you sleep."

That wasn't right. That couldn't be right.

"My mission is to protect you."

"To hell with that," Steve said. He sounded angry at first but then he released a long breath. "There are assignments within a mission, right? You have to train, you have to prepare?" Even though he was smiling, he sounded strained.

"Yes."

"Then our next assignment is getting you a shower and clean clothes and sleep. All right?"

No, not all right. But he didn't have a choice.

"Yes."

It took an extra few seconds while Steve looked at him as though deciding if he was being truthful, but then he nodded. "All right. C'mon. Bathroom's this way. Plumbing at least hasn't changed that much in seventy years."

The two of them moved through the apartment; Dr. Banner didn't follow.

"Here we go," Steve said when they stopped at a door that he pushed open. "One reason I really like this apartment is that it has a claw foot tub, not one of those shoeboxes that pass for tubs these days. Why don't you go in and start getting those clothes off? I'll bring you fresh ones."

So he walked into the bathroom. It wasn't sleek and metal and cold. The floor was dark wood, not bright tile. There was a deep tub, not a narrow shower stall. The towels hanging over the rods didn't look like they'd scour his skin off.

"I'll be right back," Steve said and pulled the door shut.

And he was left standing staring at the reflection in the mirror that hung on the back of the door.

The only time he ever saw himself was in accidental reflections. He was never allowed time to consider himself in a mirror and he'd never had any interest in it. Now, he couldn't _not_ consider the image that stared back at him.

Hair - long.

Cap and face and clothes - filthy.

Eyes - he looked hard at the reflection. He remembered those eyes; wide and scared, they were the eyes of every assignment he'd ever been given.

This wasn't the confident man at the Smithsonian Exhibit who smiled and laughed and stood next to Steve because Steve wanted him to. Because he was allowed. Because he could. This was a filthy, scared man waiting for the next wipe to rip away everything.

The door opened then, Steve coming in. "How're you doing?"

He didn't answer. He couldn't answer. He stared at the slice of reflection that he could still see in the mirror on the back of the opened door. Steve followed where he was looking.

"Oh. Oh - let me - I'll just - " He set his armful of clothes on the sink and pulled a towel to tuck around the mirror. "I don't use that mirror. Much. It came with the apartment. I never took it down."

"I don't remember."

"Remember what?"

"Remember him." He gestured to the mirror. Steve looked back at it briefly.

"That's okay. I kinda think you've never seen _him_ before. Once you have a shower and shave, you'll feel better."

Shower and a shave. Shaving. Hot towels. Warm lather. A bald man sharpening a straight razor on a length of leather. Talking about dames. Laughing at something. Sitting in a chair that leaned him back and the bald man with the straight razor bending over him and -

"_NO._" He raised his metal arm in front of himself; it whirred and battened in self-defense. "No chair. I don't want to go in the chair. I won't go in the chair. Not again."

"Okay. Okay." Steve raised his hands but didn't move. "It's okay, Bucky. There's no chair. Shaving these days is just - you don't need a chair - you just - No, hey, you know what? Shaving's not important. It's not. Just have a shower and brush your teeth and we'll take it from there."

Then Steve didn't say anything. He didn't move, didn't threaten, didn't demand. He lowered his hands.

"We're gonna be okay, Buck. You have to trust me on that - we're gonna be okay."

"Why do you say 'we'?"

The question seemed to puzzle Steve.

"Because we're in this together."

"You don't know who I am."

"You're the man who didn't let me drown in the Potomac River. And for that alone, I'm sticking with you on this."

To be continued


	10. Chapter 10

Water. Warm water.

He was used to warm water, of course. Whenever he showered, he had warm water.

This water felt warmer.

_'This is the toothpaste,'_ Steve had begun his instructions and explanations. _'We don't use tooth powder anymore. And a fresh toothbrush. The toilet's the same, well, except for flushing, you push the lever, there's no chain. The shower only has one knob for hot and cold. This is how you adjust the water temperature. Let me get it started for you... You don't need anything special for your arm, do you? Do you? Because I can get anything you need.'_

Steve had gone on about trifles until finally he had to point out, quietly,

_'It hasn't been seventy years for me.'_

_'Yeah, I know. I just don't anything to be a surprise for you.'_

He thought nothing could surprise him.

After Steve left, he'd used the toilet, then pulled off the clothes that he'd been wearing longer than he could remember and put them in a neatly folded pile at the door. He'd brushed his teeth and rinsed his mouth and then gotten into the shower and started the process of getting the rest of him clean. The soap didn't smell of chemicals or feel like grit. The shampoo didn't sting his eyes, didn't make his hair feel like scorched grass.

_'Just take as long as you need, Buck. We won't run out of hot water - believe me, I've tried. Take as long as you need. Take as long as you want.'_

And the water felt warmer.

When he was clean - and that was as long as he needed - he dried off using a towel that was bigger than some blankets he'd been given on assignments and didn't smell sour. He folded the towel when he was done with it and laid it on top of the used clothing and got dressed in what Steve had left him. Sweatpants - he'd never worn them, but two of his targets had. The looseness of the material and design made it harder to accurately pinpoint kill spots on a body, but he'd managed. There was also a t-shirt. He usually wore those but this fabric wasn't as heavy as he was used to.

He didn't look at himself in the mirror over the sink or pull the towel off the one on the back of the door. Steve had covered the mirror; he wasn't allowed to look.

When he was dressed, he picked up the used laundry and opened the door. No guards. No one standing, impatient, outside the door. There were no voices, no commands or demands, so he followed the sound of a faucet running down the hall into the kitchen.

Steve was taking cups out of the cupboard. He set them on the counter and turned. "Hey! How're you doing? Here, let me take those clothes; I'll put them in the washer. I made tea. It's just us; Bruce went home. Are you hungry? I don't have tomato soup, but how about chicken noodle? Or maybe a sandwich? Or did you want to get some sleep first?"

Questions. Too many questions too fast.

"What do you want me to do?"

Steve stopped just as he seemed about to ask another question. "I guess I'm going too fast again, hunh? Bruce said I had to watch doing that. Here." He took the used clothes and set them on the corner of the sink. "We'll have tea. It's in the dining room. C'mon."

He followed Steve back down the hall. A teapot, two cups, and a carton of milk waited on the dining room table. Dr. Banner seemed absent. He wanted to ask, but maybe he wouldn't like the answer. Maybe Dr. Banner was really off preparing his next cryofreeze.

"Sit," Steve told him, and added, "Please."

So he sat. Steve poured tea and milk and set a cup in front of him before sitting down himself. He watched Steve pick his cup up in both hands and sip from it and he copied him. He felt the warmth of it in his hands and down his throat. He didn't remember tea.

"I'll wash your clothes while you're sleeping."

"They're not mine."

"Sure they are."

"I took them from you. I stole them from you."

Steve smiled and shook his head.

"Can't steal what I want you to have. Anything you need, anything you want, Buck - it's yours."

"Chocolate - " It came out so fast it surprised him. It scared him. He didn't ask for anything. He wasn't allowed to ask for anything. Instead of finishing his request, he took another sip of tea.

"Chocolate?" Steve asked. He sounded happy. "Sure. Wait 'til you see what I've got. It was your favorite." He left the dining room and went back to the kitchen.

_Chocolate cake. Cold milk. That woman whose face he could almost see -_

"Here you go." Steve was back and set something on the table next to the tea cup.

Chocolate.

"It's Hersheys," Steve said. "We used to save up to buy them, then we got all we wanted in the Army. Field Ration D, remember?"

He didn't remember Field Ration D. He didn't remember Hersheys. He picked up the chocolate bar because he was supposed to take what he was given and not ask for anything else but it slowly crumpled as his fist closed around it. He didn't want chocolate. He wanted chocolate cake. But what he wanted didn't matter. It never mattered.

"No. No, I don't -" Every instinct told him to back down, eat the damn chocolate and shut the hell up but he threw the candy down onto the table as the words forced themselves out. "_I don't want this."_

He expected the room to fill with guns and guards, swarming out from some hidden room he hadn't detected. He'd be dragged away and wiped and lose everything he'd found today and all because he wouldn't eat a chocolate bar because he couldn't remember how to say _'cake'_.

But no one swarmed. No guns or guards or punishments appeared. Steve reached over the table for the destroyed candy then sat back.

"Maybe you get some rest now," he said, even though he suddenly sounded exhausted. "You've had a hard -" Steve stumbled over his words there. "You must be tired. You should sleep. C'mon."

Sleep. Cryofreeze. Unconsciousness. Oblivion.

He followed Steve down to the bedroom; it hadn't changed from the night he took the clothes. Steve pulled the blankets back on the bed and gestured to it.

"All right, here you go. Lie down and get some sleep."

Not cryofreeze, then. Something, though. He was never given sleep. Especially not after he'd reacted violently. It had to be something more than sleep. He'd lost everything.

"Will I see you again?"

"What?"

No, he shouldn't have asked. He shouldn't have refused the chocolate. He shouldn't have said anything about chocolate. He should just lie down and go to sleep.

If he could remember how to do that.

He sat on the mattress but before he could process what the next step might be, Steve put his hand on his shoulder.

"You know, you're just resting, right? Just taking a nap. I'll wake you up when supper's ready. It'll still be daylight. It'll still be the same day. You'll see me again. Today."

Then Steve paused, waiting for an answer. An acknowledgement. A confirmation. But he didn't know how to answer him. If he wasn't going to be punished -

"It's okay, Buck. It'll all work out. Just get some sleep."

Then it was really just going to be sleep.

But -

"I don't remember how to sleep."

And Steve's expression sharpened, as though he was in sudden pain.

"Your body will remember. Just lie down, close your eyes and breathe. Your body will remember how to sleep."

So, he laid back on the mattress, flat and straight and still unwillingly waiting for some punishment to follow.

"Just close your eyes," Steve said again. "Just let yourself rest. I'll be nearby if you need me, okay? If you need anything, if you want anything, I'm right outside."

And he closed his eyes and breathed, smelling that _Old Spice_ smell again. Heaviness filled his skull, traveling from the back of his brain, over and around and finally stopping and settling just below his eyes.

"That's right," he heard Steve say softly, as he felt the blanket pulled over him. "That's exactly how you do it. Just relax, just breathe. I'm right here. I'll be right here."

And the world went dark.

To be continued


	11. Chapter 11

_Breathe._

He was suddenly awake in an unfamiliar position in an unfamiliar room staring at an unfamiliar ceiling. He needed to breathe but there was no breathing tube and his throat was shut and his lungs were burning and panic was setting in.

_Breathe._ _He needed to breathe._

Why did they bring him out of cryofreeze without putting in the breathing tube? There was no breathing tube, there were none of the other tubes and needles that pumped in the solutions that warmed his organs from the inside out whenever they brought him out of cryofreeze.

_Breathe. Breathe. He needed to breathe._

He couldn't breathe.

This was wrong. Something was wrong. _Something was very wrong_.

He twisted in his bonds, trying to attract the attention of the doctors or guards or somebody, but there were no bonds – there were _no bonds_ – and he twisted himself right off the edge of whatever he was laying on, crashing into whatever was next to him and landing hard on the floor.

_He needed to breathe. He needed to breathe._

His lungs and his brain filled with frozen fire and his vision blackened and if nobody came to find out what was wrong –

"_Breathe. Bucky – __**BREATHE**__."_

Someone shouted at him and they had his shoulders in an iron grip and when they shook him, hard, he could finally drag in a harsh, frantic, grateful breath.

"You with me? Hey – hey – you with me, Pal? Bucky? _Bucky_! C'mon. Breathe. _Breathe_. Take another breath. Bucky, take another breath."

He did. He dragged in another painful, noisy breath that edged the fire out of his chest and it stuttered back out of him, just as noisy, pulling the fire with it. And then another breath.

"There you go. That's good. Keep doing that. Keep breathing. Just keep breathing."

As he pulled more air in and pushed it back out, it got easier to do, less painful, less noisy and he could pull more air in each time. The blackness in his vision cleared but he kept his eyes down and didn't look at whoever still had his shoulders in that hard grip. He wasn't allowed to look.

"Buck? You with me now? You okay? Bucky?"

He didn't recognize the voice, but that wasn't unusual. There weren't always the same people bringing him back from cryofreeze who put had put him there. Even the slight panic in the voice wasn't something entirely unusual – if something happened to him, if he couldn't complete his missions and somebody knew and didn't do anything, that somebody would be in a world of trouble.

"Bucky? Hey, Buck, it's okay. Okay? It's all right. You're safe. Whatever – whatever that was – it's – it's – you're safe. Okay? You're safe. C'mon, let's get you up off the floor. Okay?"

Up. Up off the floor. He waited to be dragged to his feet and secured into the chair and punished for the unfreezing going so poorly.

But the hands on his shoulders loosened their tight grip. One hand stayed where it was, the other moved just enough to be placed gently against his jaw. The voice changed from panicked to – concerned?

"Hey, c'mon, look at me, Pal. Let me know you're all right. Just look at me. Please."

_Please. _That word couldn't be meant for him. It was never meant for him.

"Buck – c'mon. I need to know you're all right now."

Now. An order.

He lifted his eyes just enough – he knew instinctively just how much was just enough – to see that the man in front of him wasn't wearing combat gear or a doctor's uniform or a handler's three piece suit. He was wearing –

He was wearing – ?

His mind searched for the right name of what he saw and even when it presented the word to him, some other part of his mind told him it couldn't be right.

The man in front of him, holding him in place, the man who was there to watch him, guard him, control him, punish him, was wearing a – ?

"Are you making that face at my apron? Go ahead, laugh it up, Barnes. I'm in the middle of making supper and I am not going to get dirty doing it."

Something in the words or the voice or the fact that he wasn't already being beaten for disobedience knocked some blockage clear in his brain and a sluggish memory flowed in.

_Bucky. Barnes. Supper. Bedroom. Safe. Home. Steve. _

_Steve._

"Steve?"

"Yeah. Hey – yeah. You with me now? You okay?"

He looked up farther, he looked at Steve, whose expression changed from pinched and worried to open and relieved.

"Hey. You had me worried. I heard the crash and I thought somebody had – I mean I thought – I just – I'm glad you're okay."

He looked around. The bedside table and lamp were lying across the floor. The chair that had been next to the bed was shoved up against the bureau. He'd done that. He'd made a mess. He'd reacted violently and made a mess and he'd be punished for it. Steve would have to punish him for it.

"Bucky? What is it? What's – hey, are you worried about the furniture? Don't be. C'mon. It doesn't matter. You matter, all right? All I'm worried about is you. C'mon, c'mon let's get you off the floor. All right?"

Steve stood up and the hands – Steve's hands, Bucky suddenly realized – lifted from his shoulders. He wasn't knocked down, he wasn't dragged up, he was left sitting on the floor and Steve offered a hand to him.

"All right, Buck? Let's get you off the floor."

He waited, considering that hand and what it meant. Then he lifted his own hand, his metal hand, and Steve took it and helped him to his feet.

"C'mon. You can come out and help me make supper, if you want. All right?"

"Yeah. Yeah, all right."

Steve smiled, wide and happy.

"Great! C'mon – I've got another apron you can wear…"

To be continued


	12. Chapter 12

The kitchen smelled of - everything. His brain felt like an overloaded helicopter struggling to land as it tried to isolate and identify every smell and sight and sensation: coffee percolating, beef cooking, water boiling, peeled potatoes sitting in a bowl on the counter, a warm tile floor under his bare feet, stove, oven, sink, cupboards, no weapons, no machinery, no chair, no cryofreeze, no handlers, no orders, no threat, no -

"Here we go." Steve's voice cut through the noise in his head. When he looked, Steve was holding out another apron and he took it into his hands. It was just like the one Steve was wearing; dark blue, heavy material. Not thin and white and plastic like the ones the technicians wore whenever they took samples of his blood or bone or flesh.

Not like the one _she_ wore when she gave them milk and chocolate cake and -

"Where is she?"

"Who?" Steve asked.

But he didn't know who she was. He knew she was kind and giving and kept her door open, and remembering her was like trying to get a clock ticking that was missing a cog in its movement and all he could remember of her was cake and milk and warmth and safety and -

"Bucky? Who're you asking about?"

"She gave us milk and - and -" He didn't say 'chocolate cake' because he wanted chocolate cake and he couldn't want anything. "Her apron had pink flowers and big pockets. She - I remember milk. That's - that's what I remember."

He wanted to know who she was, where she was, so he was watching Steve closely, so he saw the change - at first Steve was curious, interested in what he was asking. Then his expression fell, and then it closed off and he turned away, towards the counter.

"I better finish cutting up these potatoes and get them boiling," Steve said instead of answering the question. "We're having roast beef for supper and mashed potatoes."

He wasn't allowed to ask about her, then. He wasn't allowed to remember her. He wanted to know who she was but he wasn't allowed to want anything. There were a lot of things he wasn't allowed to remember but this one seemed to press behind his ribs and into his lungs. He'd never know who she was.

"What do I do?" He asked. Steve hadn't told him yet what his job was here, other than protecting Steve and he didn't need an apron to do that. So there must be something else he was supposed to do.

"Um, well…" Steve cleared his throat and finished slicing the last potato into the pot of boiling water before turning around. "Which would you prefer with supper? Corn or creamed corn or carrots or peas?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Of course it does."

"I eat whatever I'm given to eat."

"No!" Steve slammed the knife onto the counter. His jaw was clenched. "Dammit - no! That's not -"

Every muscle in his body, every gear in his left arm tensed. Steve was angry; he'd done something wrong. He dropped his gaze to the floor and gripped the apron in his hands and waited to be punished.

But Steve didn't lash out at him.

"Oh - no. God, no, Bucky. I didn't mean - I'm not - no, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Then Steve pulled off his apron and threw it on the floor and walked out of the kitchen.

What was he supposed to do? Was he supposed to wait? Unless and until he was given instructions, unless he knew what was required of him, he always waited where he was left. That was the protocol. Wait for orders. Wait for instructions. Wait.

But something else - something deeper, something _older_ \- urged him to follow Steve and he found him in the room where they'd had tea before. Steve was sitting at the table with his head in his hands but after a few seconds he looked up, took a deep breath and ran his hands over his face.

"I'm not angry with you, Buck. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have reacted like that. C'mon, sit. We need to talk."

_Talk. _That was always code for something else, something painful or lethal or both.

Still holding the apron, he sat in the same chair he'd been in when he drank the tea. The crushed chocolate bar was still there, near Steve's hand. The wrapper had been ripped open and a piece of chocolate had been broken off. That was probably something else Steve going to _talk _about.

"I broke that."

"It's all right. It still tastes good, no matter what shape it's in." Steve said, with an effort at smiling, but then he gestured to the apron and said, "Your Mom. You're remembering your Mom. She always - most days after school I'd go home with you, until my Mom got home from work. Your Mom always had milk and cookies or pie or cake waiting for us. She always wore her apron with the pink roses on it. You're remembering that."

He thought about that for a minute, let it stir around in his brain, milk and safety and belonging. It stirred but didn't settle. There was a missing piece.

"She's dead."

"Yeah. I'm sorry. She is. Your Mom's dead."

He knew 'dead'. Dead was bone white and blood red, mouths opened in screams and eyes opened in terror, his targets running from him, staring at him, dying in front of him. Dying because of him.

"I killed her?"

"What? No. No! You were - no, no. Your Mom and your Dad both died years after the war. No. It wasn't you."

He stared at the apron and tried to sort that information out. He'd had parents. He'd had a Mom and a Dad. _Mom and Pop. _They were his family. They were his home. They were dead. They were gone. He'd never meet them.

"Are you all right?" Steve asked.

But they hadn't really been _his _parents, had they?

"Bucky?"

He almost said, _Don't call me that,_ but he caught himself before he was insubordinate and before he could think what else to say there was a loud hissing sound from the kitchen.

"Dammit, the potatoes," Steve muttered. "I'll be right back."

And even though that sounded like he should stay where he was, he followed that deeper, other, older _something _that told him to go to the kitchen with Steve and he walked out there. The pot of boiling potatoes had boiled over and Steve was wiping off the top of the stove.

"Did -" he started to ask, _'did I like peas?' _because if he used to like peas, he'd choose them now if Steve wanted him to make a choice, but Steve didn't turn around and he didn't know if that meant he could keep asking. So he didn't keep asking.

"I'm sorry," Steve said, when he did turn around. "'Did' what?"

"Did - " _Did you want me to do anything? Did you want me to pick corn and not peas? Did you want me to wait somewhere else? Did I make my parents proud in the war? Did they miss me when I didn't come back? Did they wait for me? Did they have any idea what I turned into? Did they love me enough to forgive what I am?_

"Bucky?"

"Don't call me that. I'm not him. Not anymore. He died, too."

He picked up Steve's apron that was still on the floor and set both on the counter near the sink. Then he turned and walked out of the kitchen.

##


	13. Chapter 13

The apartment wasn't big and he was in the front room almost as soon as he left the kitchen. That wasn't as far as he wanted to go, but it was as far as he thought he could go. As far as he should go. Even though Steve hadn't hurt him or punished him, his mind and body still expected it, expected that if he left the apartment, Steve would chase him down and drag him back.

_I'm not Bucky; he died, too._

Or maybe he wouldn't.

Maybe that would be worse.

He knew the apartment, backwards, forwards, upside down, and blindfolded. He could find the one chipped tea cup or the two identical Glenn Miller record albums by touch alone. He knew the worn spot on the carpet hidden under the sofa and the crack in the linoleum at the corner of the bathroom cabinet. He knew everything there was to know about this apartment.

Especially if he needed to kill someone.

This was the room he'd taken out one of his last targets. He'd stood on the opposite roof, watching Steve through a slit of window, knowing from his stance where the target was located, knowing from his movement when the target was standing, knowing from training or instinct or both where to aim the kill shot.

_Mission report. Confirmed death. _

He wasn't Bucky Barnes. Steve wanted Bucky and he wasn't Bucky. He was a weapon, an assassin, a rabid attack dog. A killer.

He heard Steve approaching and he straightened his shoulders and turned. Steve stepped into the room and started to say something and then didn't and then did.

"Supper's on the table."

Steve had to be tired of him not knowing, not remembering, not _being_ what he was supposed to know, to remember, to be. But he didn't know. "What does that mean?"

Steve smiled, that smile that seemed happy and sad both at the same time, and gestured over his shoulder. "It's time to eat."

Eat. More food. The soup and sandwich this morning and the tea this afternoon and now 'supper on the table'. He'd never eaten so often in such a short space of time.

"Buck - uh - c'mon," Steve said. "While it's hot."

So he followed to the table and sat where he'd sat before and looked at the plate in front of him, already filled to overflowing with food; beef and potatoes and a scoop each of corn and carrots and peas. There was an identical plate in front of Steve.

He looked from his plate to Steve's plate to Steve. He was never given this kind of food. This wasn't for him. This food, this familiarity, this wasn't for him, it was for someone who hadn't existed in seventy years.

"I'm not Bucky."

"You don't have to be. You don't have to be Bucky to eat supper, or to stay here, or to be safe," Steve said. He nodded to their plates. "Let me know what you think. I only ever cook for myself so I never know if it's any good or not."

There was only a fork, he picked it up and began to eat and the taste exploded inside his mouth. It wasn't the usual gray flavored mess of gray food. It was good. It was -

"What do you think?" Steve asked, breaking into his thoughts. "How's it taste?"

"_It's real."_

Steve was smiling but the smile seemed to freeze for just a second before he said, "Good. I'm glad you like it. I'm glad - I'm glad it tastes good." He ate his own food then, with his eyes on his plate, until he said, "I forgot the - " and pushed his chair back and went into the kitchen. He came back with a plate of bread in one hand and some kind of container in the other. "They have _spreadable_ butter, now. Can you believe it? No more torn bread and lumps of butter."

He didn't remember butter. He didn't remember this kind of bread that looked heavy and solid. He didn't remember kindness or clean clothes or sleeping in beds. He remembered death. He remembered killing.

He wanted to remember how to live.

"It's been a busy day, hunh?" Steve asked after a long silence. He spread the spreadable butter on a slice of bread. "When Bruce texted me this morning that he'd found you - "

"What am I?"

"What?" Steve asked, surprised.

"What am I?"

"Well - you - you're - you're not a 'what'," Steve stumbled over the answer. "You're a 'who', you're a man, you're -"

"I don't remember."

"Don't remember what?"

"Anything." _Anything that started with a memory wasn't allowed. Memories were bad. _"I'm not allowed to remember anything. I was never allowed to remember anything."

Steve didn't ask, _How weren't you allowed?_ He buttered two slices of bread and set one at each of their plates. "You're allowed, now," he said. "You're allowed to remember anything you want to."

He nodded and ate his food. He was allowed to remember.

_He had a life. He had a name. He was allowed to remember. _

"I remember chocolate cake," he said.

To be continued

A/N (and proud mother brag): for any Supernatural fans, if you've seen the Youtube video "Misha Collins TorCon2015 talks to young fan", that's my son!


	14. Chapter 14

_Cake. Chocolate cake. He wanted chocolate cake. _

They continued eating in silence. The food tasted better than he deserved, but his stomach felt like it was trying to crawl up his throat. _He remembered chocolate cake. He'd remembered how to say it and he'd said it. He wanted chocolate cake. _

Nothing happened after he said it. No anger. No retaliation. He waited for it, but it didn't happen. He kept eating; if he didn't eat, he didn't know what he would do, what he was supposed to do. Steve wanted him to eat, so he ate.

Steve was keeping his eyes on his plate as though he was expecting something to appear under his food. Finally, he cleared his throat and didn't quite look over.

"Your Mom made really good chocolate cake. She made it all the time for when we got home from school. Maybe we can find a recipe. I think she put vinegar in it."

Then Steve paused, as though waiting for an answer, but he couldn't think of an answer to give him._ Recipe. Vinegar. Mom._

"I don't remember."

"Don't remember what?" Steve asked, but he couldn't answer. "Bucky? Don't remember what?"

"I'm not Bucky," he said and something twisted in his chest that felt like regret.

"No. You don't have to be."

"It's what you call me."

"Because I want - Just because I call you that doesn't mean -" Steve sighed. "Just tell me what you'd rather be called, and I'll call you that." He didn't sound angry. His voice was gentle. "I need to call you something. You need a name. You deserve a name."

_You're James Buchanan Barnes. You've known me your whole life._

But no, he hadn't known Steve his whole life. He'd known him for twenty years then forgotten him for seventy.

"What did she call me?" he asked and his voice sounded as rough in his ears as it felt in his throat.

"'She'? You mean your Mom? Yeah, your Mom called you Bucky."

Was she his Mom? If he was Bucky, would she have wanted to be his Mom after everything he'd done? If he wasn't Bucky, did that mean she wasn't his Mom? If he cared what she called him, did that mean she was? Could she be his Mom even if he didn't know who he was?

Trying to satisfy that dilemma made his head hurt and he didn't want to have to think about it. "No. I don't want to know."

Steve took a breath like he was going argue or answer anyway but then he nodded. "Okay."

So they began eating again. The sooner he ate maybe the sooner he could go back to the room, back to the bed, back to not having to think or remember or want to remember. He'd eat. He had to eat. Steve wanted him to eat.

"Hey - hey," Steve's voice penetrated his brain like an echo. "Maybe you should slow down. If you eat that fast, you'll make yourself sick."

And he stopped and stared at his plate that was almost empty of the food he didn't remember eating.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to - I just - I - " He almost said, _'I thought'_ but he didn't think. He wasn't allowed to think. He set the fork down but couldn't get his hand to let go of it. "I'm sorry."

"No one's going to take it from you," Steve said. His mouth was smiling but his eyes were - sad? "And we've got plenty."

"Can I - what do I -" he tried to think what to say, how to ask if he could go back to the room, could he just go back to the room, away from this, from having to think, from trying not to remember, but his brain was misfiring and he felt like he wasn't getting enough air. He was clean and fed and safe, but he'd never felt so much on the edge of danger. He wanted something. He _wanted _something. Just thinking that made his mouth dry and his heart pound. More than he wanted chocolate cake, he wanted to know who he was. He wanted it enough to risk asking for it. All he had to do was ask. All he had to do was risk everything.

"She called me Bucky?"

"She did," Steve nodded then shrugged. "I mean, unless you were ignoring her. If you were ignoring her, she called you '_Jaaaames'. _If you annoyed her, she called you '_James. Buchanan. Barnes'."_

"Is that who I am?" He met Steve's eyes and held his gaze, waiting for the answer. Waiting to be told who he was. "She called me that, you call me that; is that who I am?"

"Only you can decide that," Steve said. "You can be whoever you want to be, but only you get to decide who that is. Do you want to be Bucky?"

His first reaction was to think _yes_, yes he wanted to be Bucky, he wanted to be that Bucky who smiled and joked and laughed with Steve and protected people instead of slaughtering them. He wanted to be the Bucky who Steve trusted and relied on and knew better than anybody else.

Then he looked at his metal hand, his metal arm. He looked into his past and saw a faceless, nameless, pitiless killer.

"I can't be him. I've done - the things I've done - He died a long time ago. I can't be him."

Steve took a breath and seemed about to say something, then he narrowed his eyes and tilted his head like he was thinking about it.

"No, you're right. You can't be that Bucky. You're not that Bucky, not from the war, or from before the war. Just like I'm not Steve from before the war anymore, either. Not the one before the war, not even the one _from_ the war. I'm the Steve who survived the war, the serum, the ice, and everything that's happened since the ice. I'm _this _Steve. You can't be that Bucky, but you can be _this_ Bucky. The Bucky who survived."

He wasn't sure he liked that answer. He couldn't process it. He couldn't define it. _This Bucky. _"But is he - what is he?"

Steve didn't answer right away. He tilted his head and seemed to be thinking, considering the question. "If you want to be Bucky, whoever you want to be, he's what you make him."

"But everything - everything - " His left hand curled into a fist and he pushed it under the table. "How do I - ? Everything I did - ?"

"You learn to deal with the past so that it doesn't overwhelm you," Steve said. "And you learn to deal with the future the same way. I won't lie; it's not easy. But it's possible. It's the way I had to do it. "

_'The way I had to do it.'_ It hadn't been easy for Steve either; he hadn't considered that. Steve had had to make a similar assimilation and it hadn't been easy. It was okay if it wasn't easy. _Not easy_ was what Steve expected.

"But - what do I do? Where do I go? Who - who do I belong -"

"_With?_" Steve asked, cutting him off. "Who do you belong _with_? You belong withme. Just like I belong with you. And the only place you go is wherever the hell you want to, and the only thing you do is whatever you want to. And you don't fear anybody or anything."

By the end, Steve was speaking insistently, but then he rolled his eyes and smiled, looking embarrassed. "At least that's what we're aiming for. Right now, you think of who you want to be, what name you want to be called. That's the starting point. We'll work from there."

"_Can_ I be Bucky? If I w- if I wa-" He had to drag the word out and it left his throat raw. "If I _want_ to be Bucky, is that - if I want to be him but I'm not him, is that - will that - To say his name but see me? Don't you wish - aren't you going to wish he was here instead of me? Don't you miss him?"

"Yeah, I miss him," Steve said after a moment's hesitation. "Losing Bucky was the worst thing that ever happened to me. But however much or how little there is of him in you, whatever name you choose, whoever you choose to be, I'm going to be glad that you're safe and sound and free. Just take one step at a time."

"What's the first step?" he asked.

But Steve said, "The first step is you decide what your name is."

He heard the answer and understood the words but his mind blanked on being able to answer them. He swallowed and then swallowed again. Bolts of terror shot through his body, the fear that had been beaten and burned into him both not to look, not to want, not to be anything but a faceless, nameless, attack dog, and the fear of not answering. _Mind wipe. Confinement. Disengage the arm. Rules. Protocols. Ensure his compliance. Mission report. Mission report__** now**__. _

Without thinking, he ducked his head and put his hands to his face, trying to stop the decades of blows that punished anything less than instant obedience. He couldn't answer Steve. He didn't know his name. He didn't know who he was. He couldn't answer. There was no answer. He had to answer.

"If I - if I -" he gulped around the fear and breathlessness. "If I say I'm Bucky Barnes, then what do I do?"

He felt Steve wrap his hand around his metal arm. "Then you say it again."

"Again?"

"You say it as many times as you need to."

_'You're my friend. You've known me your whole life. I'm with you to the end of the line.'_

"James Buchanan Barnes," he said, softly, down to the table.

"What?"

"My name is James Buchanan Barnes." He looked at Steve and managed to hold his gaze. "My name is Bucky."

Steve smiled, a broad smile with no underlying sadness or anger or tears. "Welcome home, Bucky."

The End.


End file.
